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VERSE 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 


'BORZO.l  POETRY 
1922 

VERSE,    by  Adelaidt  Crapity 
ITALIAN  POEMS,   an  Anthology 
COBBLESTONES,  by  David  Stntner 
THE  SHEPHERD,  by  Edmund  Blundtn 
THE  NEW  WORLD,  by   Witttr  Bynntr 
THE  MASTER-MISTRESS,  by  Ron  O'Neill 
SONGS  OF  YOUTH,   by  Mary  Dixon  Thayer 
COLLECTED  POEMS    •/  James    Elroy  Flecker 


ADELAIDE     CRAPSEY 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED -A- KNOPF 
1922 


' 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1922,  BY 
ALGERNON  S.  CRAPSEY 


Published,  August,  1922 


LA 


Set  up  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Blnghamton,  N.  Y. 

Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherinoton  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  by  the  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  Mass. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

Adelaide  Crapsey,  daughter  of  Algernon  Sid 
ney  and  Adelaide  Trowbridge  Crapsey,  was  born 
on  the  ninth  of  September,  1878.  She  died  in 
her  thirty-sixth  year  on  October  the  eighth,  1914. 
Her  young  girlhood  was  spent  in  Rochester,  New 
York,  where  her  eminent  father  was  rector  of  St. 
Andrew's  Parish.  At  fourteen  she  entered  the 
preparatory  school  of  Kemper  Hall,  Kenosha, 
Wisconsin,  from  which  school  she  graduated  at 
the  head  of  her  class,  in  1897.  She  entered  Vas- 
sar  College  the  same  year,  graduating  with  the 
class  of  1901. 

Two  years  after  her  graduation  she  began  her 
work  as  a  teacher  of  History  and  Literature,  in 
Kemper  Hall.  In  1905  she  went  abroad  and  be 
came  a  student  in  the  School  of  Archaeology  in 
Rome.  The  following  year  she  assumed  the  posi 
tion  of  instructor  in  Literature  and  History  in 
Miss  Lowe's  Preparatory  School  in  Stamford, 
Conn.,  but  in  1908  on  account  of  failing  health 
she  was  compelled  to  abandon  teaching  for  a 
time.  The  two  succeeding  years  she  spent  in 


627112 


Italy  and  England,  working  on  her  Analysis  of 
English  Metrics  —  an  exhaustive  scientific  thesis 
relating  to  accent  —  which  years  before  she  had 
planned  to  accomplish  as  her  serious  life  work. 

In  1911  she  returned  to  America  and  became 
instructor  in  Poetics  at  Smith  College.  The  dou 
ble  burden  of  teaching  and  writing  proved  too 
much  for  her  frail  constitution,  and  in  1913, 
gravely  ill,  she  was  obliged  to  abandon  definitely 
and  finally  both  activities.  The  rest  is  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  remarkable  verses  of  her  last 
poetic  phase. 

These  are  the  bare  biographical  facts  in  the  life 
of  Adelaide  Crapsey,  but/ft  would  be  an  injustice 
to  the  reader  not  to  attempt  to  render  some  sense 
of  her  personality,  all  compounded  of  beauty, 
mystery  and  charm.  I  remember  her  as  fair  and 
fragile,  in  action  swift,  in  repose  still;  so  quick 
and  silent  in  her  movements  that  she  seemed  never 
to  enter  a  room  but  to  appear  there,  and  on  the 
stroke  of  some  invisible  clock  to  vanish  as  she  had 


Although  in  Meredith's  phrase  "a  man  and  a 
woman  both  for  brains,"  she  was  an  intensely 
feminine  presence,  perfection  was  the  passion  of 
her  life,  and  as  one  discerns  it  in  her  verse,  one 
marked  it  also  in  her  raiment/-  In  the  line 

"And  know  my  tear-drenched  veil   along   the  grass" 

I  see  again  her  drooping  figure  with  some  trail  of 


gossamer  bewitchment  clinging  about  or  drifting 
after  her.  Although  her  body  spoke  of  a  fas 
tidious  and  sedulous  care  in  keeping  with  her  es 
sentially  aristocratic  nature,  she  was  merciless 
in  the  demands  she  made  upon  it,  and  this  was  the 
direct  cause  of  her  loss  of  health.  The  keen  and 
shining  blade  of  her  spirit  too  greatly  scorned  its 
scabbard  the  body,  and  for  this  she  paid  the  utter 
most  penalty. 

Her  death  was  tragic.  Full  of  the  desire  of 
life  she  yet  was  forced  to  go,  leaving  her  work  all 
unfinished.  Her  last  year  was  spent  in  exile  at 
Saranac  Lake.  From  her  window  she  looked 
down  on  the  graveyard — "Trudeau's  Garden,"  she 
called  it,  with  grim-gay  irony.  Here,  forbidden 
the  work  her  metrical  study  entailed,  these  poems 
grew — flowers  of  a  battlefield  of  the  spirit.  But 
of  her  passionate  revolt  against  the  mandate  of 
her  destiny  she  spared  her  family  and  friends  even 
a  sign.  When  they  came  to  cheer  and  comfort 
her  it  was  she  who  brought  them  cheer  and  com 
fort.  With  magnificent  and  appalling  courage  she 
gave  forth  to  them  the  humor  and  gaiety  of  her 
unclouded  years,  saving  them  even  beyond  the  end 
from  knowledge  of  this  beautiful  and  terrible 
testament  of  a  spirit  all  unreconciled,  flashing  uun- 
quenched  defiance  to  the  stars." 

This  collection  of  her  verse  is  of  her  own  choos 
ing,  arranged  and  prepared  by  her  own  hand. 
She  wrote  gay  verse  in  the  earlier  days  before  the 


shadow  fell  upon  her,  but  her  rigorous  regard  for 
unity  banished  it  from  this  record  of  the  fearful 
questioning  of  her  spirit. 

This  "immortal  residue"  is  full  of  poignancy 
and  power.  The  heart  is  stricken  with  her  own 
terror  at  the  approach  of 

"The  despot  of  our  days  the  lord  of  dust." 

The  book  which  is  her  funeral  urn  will  be  found 
to  hold  more  than  the  ashes  of  a  personal  passion, 
it  contains 

"Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain  of  finite  hearts  that  yearn." 

CLAUDE  BRAGDON. 
Rochester,  N.  Y. 
October 


PREFACE 

Adelaide  Crapsey  was,  over  a  term  of  many 
years,  an  eager  student  of  the  technical  aspects 
of  English  poetry.  She  died  on  October  eighth 
1914,  after  having  completed  two-thirds  of  her 
Analysis  of  English  Metrics — an  exhaustive  sci 
entific  thesis  relating  to  accent — which,  years  be 
fore,  she  had  planned  to  accomplish  as  her  serious 
life  work.  Though  her  mind  was  intensely  pre 
occupied  with  the  technical  and  analytical  aspects 
of  prosody,  still  the  creative,  artistic  side  of  her 
nature  was  so  spontaneously  alive,  that  she  accom 
plished  a  very  considerable  volume  of  original 
poetry — almost  as  a  by-product  of  her  study  in 
metrics. 

In  the  gay  and  somewhat  insouciant  period  of 
her  early  days,  she  could  write  finished  verse  with 
the  ease  and  readiness  that  the  majority  of  people 
reserve  only  for  the  most  commonplace  of  prose. 
I  have  actually  known  her  to  produce  the  book  of 
an  acceptable  operetta  over  the  week-end-!  That 
early  work  is  gone.  It  lives  only  in  the  memory 
of  those  who  happened  to  be  near  her  at  the  time. 


She  tossed  it  off  as  the  fleeting  expression  of  a 
moment,  and  took  no  slightest  care  to  preserve  it. 
But  several  of  those  early  poems  stick  persistently 
in  my  mind  over  the  years,  and  though  I  have  no 
copy  and  cannot  quote  them  accurately,  I  still  be 
lieve  them  worthy  of  a  permanent  form.  That 
delightful  quality  of  camaraderie,  her  quick,  bub 
bling  humor  she  retained  to  the  end  in  conversa 
tion;  the  sadder,  sombre  questioning  of  her  in 
ner  life  attained  expression  only  in  the  poetry  she 
has  left. 

These  poems,  of  a  gossamer  delicacy  and 
finish,  are  the  stronger  for  the  technical  knowl 
edge  behind  them.  Likewise,  her  technical  work 
possessed  the  more  vigor  because  it  was  not  the 
result  of  mere  theoretical  analysis,  but  also  of  the 
first-hand  knowledge  gained  through  her  own  cre 
ative  achievement.  In  each  field  she  spoke  with 
the  authority  that  experience  in  the  other  gave. 
Her  studies  in  prosody  were  too  technical  for 
comprehension  by  the  lay  reader.  It  is  through 
her  creative  work  that  she  will  be  remembered, 
though  she  herself  considered  this  the  slightest 
part  of  her  accomplishment. 

As  her  study  in  metrics  was  astoundingly  ob 
jective  and  coldly  unreflective  of  any  emotional 
mood,  so  her  own  poems  were  at  the  other  ex 
treme,  astoundingly  subjective  and  descriptive  of 
a  mental  state  that  found  expression  in  no  other 


form.  They  are  heart-breakingly  sombre;  but 
they  are  true. 

Adelaide  Crapsey,  by  nature  as  vivid  and  joy 
ous  and  alive  a  spirit  as  ever  loved  the  beauty  of 
life,  like  Keats  and  Stevenson,  worked  doggedly 
for  many  years  against  the  numbing  weight  of  a 
creeping  pitiless  disease.  In  her  last  year,  spent 
in  exile  at  Saranac  Lake,  forbidden  the  strength- 
sapping  work  that  her  metrical  study  entailed,  she 
was  forced  to  lie  and  look  into  space — and  these 
poems  grew.  Her  window  looked  down  upon  the 
Saranac  graveyard,  "Trudeau's  garden,"  she  gaily 
called  it;  but  its  meaning  struck  home.  "To  the 
Dead  in  the  Graveyard  Underneath  my  Win 
dow,"  was  among  the  papers  she  left  behind. 

The  verse  form  which  she  calls  "Cinquain"  she 
originated  herself.  It  is  an  example  of  extrem- 
est  compression.  She  reduces  an  idea  to  its  very 
lowest  terms — and  presents  it  in  a  single  sharp 
impression. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  many  of  these  poems 
were  left  only  in  their  first  rough  draft,  they  are 
marvelously  perfect.  A  fastidious  distinction 
marks  all  of  her  work — all  of  her  life — it  was  the 
most  characteristic  feature  of  a  very  rare  nature. 

JEAN  WEBSTER. 
Fassar  Miscellany 
March  1915 


CONTENTS 
PART  I    '      < 

BIRTH-MOMENT,   19 

THE  MOTHER  EXULTANT/23  ' 

JOHN  KEATS,    2J 

CINQUAINS 
.NOVEMBER  NIGHT,   31 
RELEASE,  32     t**~~ 
-  TRIAD,  33 

SNOW,  3^ 

ANGUISH,  35  -J^*~ 
» TRAPPED,  36 

MOON-SHADOWS,  37 

SUSANNA  AND  THE  ELDERS,  38 

YOUTH,  39 

THE  GUARDED  WOU.ND,  40 
-WINTER,   41 

NIGHT  WINDS,  42 

ARBUTUS,  43 

ROMA  AETERNA,  44 

"HE'S  KILLED  THE  MAY    .    .    ."  45 

AMAZE,   46 

SHADOW,  47 

MADNESS,  48 

THE  WARNLNG,   49    / 


SAYING  OF  IL  HABOUL,  50 

FATE  DEFIED,    51 

LAUREL  IN  THE  BERKSHIRES,  52 

NIAGARA,   53 

THE  GRAND  CANYO.N,   54 

NOW  BARABBAS  WAS  A  ROBBER,  55 

•I  FOR  LUCAS  CRANACH'S  Eve,  56 

THE  SOURCE,   57 
[BLUE  HYACINTHS,  58 

PART  II 

TO  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR,  6 1 

THE  PLEDGE,   62 

HYPNOS,  GOD  OF  SLEEP,  63 

EXPENSES,  64 

ON  SEEING  WEATHER-BEATEN  TREES,  65 

ADVENTURE,   66 

OH,  LADY,  LET  THE  SAD  TEARS  FALL,  67 

DIRGE,   68 

THE  SUN-DIAL,  69 

OLD  LOVE,   70 

AH  ME  ...  ALAS,  71 
PERFUME  OF  YOUTH,  72 
RAPU.NZEL,  73 
VENDOR'S  SONG,  74 
AVIS,  75 
DOOMSDAY,  76 
GRAIN  FIELD,  77 

SONG,  78 

PIERROT,   79 

THE  MONK  IN  THE  GARDE.N,  80 


TO  THE  DEAD  IN  THE   GRAVEYARD   UNDERNEATH 
MY  WINDOW,    8  I 

THE  MOURNER,  84 

NIGHT,   85 

ROSE-MARY  OF  THE  A.NGELS,    86 

ANGELIQUE,   87 

CHIMES,    88 

MAD-SONG,  90 

MY  BIRDS   THAT   FLY   NO   LONGER,    92 

THE  WITCH,   93     ^*- 

CRY  OF  THE    NYMPH   TO   EROS,    94 

CRADLE-SONG,  96 

TO      MAN      WHO      GOES      SEEKING      IMMORTALITY, 
BIDDING   HIM  LOOK  NEARER   HOME,   98 

THE  LONELY  DEATH,  99 

LO,  ALL  THE  WAY,    IOO 
AUTUMN,   101 
/  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES,    IO2 

THE  CRUCIFIXION,   103 

LTHE  FIDDLING  LAD,  104 

THE  IMMORTAL  RESIDUE,   IO7 


PART  ONE 


BIRTH-MOMENT 

Behold  her, 

Running  through  the  waves, 

Eager  to  reach  the  land : 

The  water  laps  her, 

Sun  and  wind  are  on  her, 

Healthy,  brine-drenched  and  young, 

Behold  Desire  new-born; — 

Desire  on  first  fulfilment's  radiant  edge, 

Love  at  miraculous  moment  of  emergence, 

This  is  she, 

Who  running, 

Hastens,  hastens  to  the  land. 

Look  .  .  .  Look  .  .  . 

Her  brown  gold  hair  and  lucent  eyes  of  youth, 

Her  body  rose  and  ivory  in  the  sun  .   .  . 

Look, 

How  she  hastens, 

Running,  running  to  the  land. 

Her  hands  are  yearning  and  her  feet  are  swift 
To  reach  and  hold 

19 


She  knows  not  what, 

Yet  knows  that  it  is  life; 

Need  urges  her, 

Self,  uncomprehended  but  most  deep  divined, 

Unwilled  but  all-compelling,  drives  her  on. 

Life  runs  to  life. 

She  who  longs, 

But  hath  not  yet  accepted  or  bestowed, 

All  virginal  dear  and  bright, 

Runs,  runs  to  reach  the  land. 

And  she  who  runs  shall  be 

Married  to  blue  of  summer  skies  at  noon, 

Companion  to  green  fields, 

Held  bride  of  subtle  fragrance  and  of  all  sweet 

sound, 

Beloved  of  the  stars, 
And  wanton  mistress  to  the  veering  winds. 

Oh,  breathless  space  between: 

Womb-time  just  passed, 

Dark-hidden,  chaotic-formative,  unpersonal, 

And  individual  life  of  fresh-created  force 

Not  yet  begun : 

One  moment  more 

Before  desire  shall  meet  desire 

And  new  creation  start: 

Oh  breathless   space, 

While  she, 

20 


Just  risen  from  the  waves, 
Runs,  runs  to  reach  the  land. 

(Ah,  keenest  personal  moment 

When  mouth  unkissed  turns  eager-slow  and 

tremulous 

Towards  lover's  mouth, 
That  tremulous  and  eager-slow 
Droops  down  to  it: 
But  breathless  space  of  breath  or  two 
Lies  in  between 
Before  the  mouth  upturned  and  mouth 

down-drooped 
Shall  meet  and  make  the  kiss.) 

Look  .  .   .  Look  .   .   . 
She  runs  .   .  . 
Love  fresh-emerged, 
Desire  new-born  .   .   . 
Blown  on  by  wind, 
And  shone  on  by  the  sun, 
She  rises  from  the  waves 
And  running, 
Hastens,  hastens  to  the  land. 

Beloved  and  Beloved  and  Beloved, 
Even  so  right 

And  beautiful  and  undenied 
21 


Is  my  desire; 

Even  so  longing-swift 

I  run  to  your  receiving  arms. 

O  Aphrodite ! 

0  Aphrodite,  hear ! 

Hear  my  wrung  cry  flame  upward  poignant- 
glad.   .  .  . 
This  is  my  time   for  me. 

1  too  am  young; 

I  too  am  all  of  love ! 
7905. 


22 


THE  MOTHER  EXULTANT 

Joy!  Joy!  Joy! 

The  hills  are  glad, 

The  valleys  re-echo  with  merriment, 

In  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  laughter, 

And  my  feet  dance  to  the  time  of  it; 

Oh,  little  son,  carried  light  on  my  shoulder, 

Let  us  go  laughing  and  dancing  through  the 

live  days, 

For  this  is  the  hour  of  the  vintage, 
When  man  gathereth  for  himself  the  fruits  of 

the  vineyard. 

Look,  little  son,  look; 
The  grapes  are  translucent  and  ripe, 
They  are  heavy  and  fragrant  with  juice, 
They  wait  for  the  hands  of  the  vintagers; 
For  a  long  time  the  grapes  were  not, 
And  were  in  the  womb  of  the  earth, 
Then  out  of  the  heavens  came  the  rain, 
The  sun  sent  down  his  warmth  from  the  sky, 
At  the  touch  of  life,  life  stirred, 
And  the  earth  brought  forth  her  fruits  in  due 
season. 

23 


I  was  a  maid  and  alone, 

When,  behold,  there  came  to  me  a  vision; 

My  heart  cried  out  within  me, 

And  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  God. 

Yea,  a  virgin  I  dreamed  of  love, 

And  I  was  troubled  and  sore  afraid, 

I  wept  and  was  glad, 

For  the  word  of  my  heart  named  me  blessed, 

My  soul  exalted  the  might  of  creation. 

I  was  a  maid  and  alone, 

When,  behold,  my  lover  came  to  me, 

My  beloved  held  me  in  his  arms. 

Joy !  Joy !  Joy ! 

Now  is  the  vision  fulfilled : 

I  have  conceived, 

I  have  carried  in  my  womb, 

I  have  brought  forth 

The  life  of  the  world; 

Out  of  my  joy  and  my  pain, 

Out  of  the  fulness  of  my  living 

Hath  my  son  gained  his  life. 

Look,  little  son,  look; 

The  grapes  are  ripe  for  the  gathering, 

The  fresh,  deep  earth  is  in  them, 

And  clean  water  from  the   clouds. 

And  golden,  golden  sun  is  in  the  heart  of  the 

grapes. 
Look,  little  son,  look; 

24 


The  earth,  your  mother, 
And  the  touch  of  life  who  is  your  father, 
They  have  provided  food  for  you 
That  you  also  may  live. 

The  vineyards  are  planted  on  the  hillside, 

They  are  the  vineyards  of  my  beloved, 

He  chose  a  favorable  spot, 

His  hands  prepared  the  soil  for  the  planting: 

He  set  out  the  young  vines 

And  cared  for  them  till  the  time  of  their 

bearing. 
Now  is  his  labour  fulfilled  who  worked  with 

God. 

The  fruit  of  the  vineyard  is  ripe, 
The  vintagers  laugh  in  the  sun, 
They  sing  while  they  gather  the  grapes, 
For  the  vintage  is  a  good  one, 
The  wine  vats  are  pressed  down  and  running 

over. 

Joy!  Joy!  Joy! 

Now  is  the  wonder  accomplished; 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  living  grape 
Hath  the  hand  of  my  beloved 
Wrung  the  wine  of  the  dream  of  life, 

Beloved, 

My  little  son's  father, 

25 


Together  we  have  given  life, 
And  the  vision  of  life; 
Shall  we  not  rejoice 
Who  have  made  eternal 
The  days  of  our  living? 

Look,  little  son,  look: 

The  grapes  glow  with  rich  juice, 

The  juice  of  the  grape  hath  in  it 

The  substance  of  the  earth, 

And  the  air's  breath; 

It  hath  in  it  the  soul  of  the  vintage. 

Put  forth  your  hand,  little  son, 

And  take  for  yourself  the  life 

That  your  father  and  your  mother 

Have  provided  for  you. 

Joy!  Joy!  Joy! 

The  hills  are  glad, 

The  valleys  re-echo  with  merriment, 

In  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  laughter, 

And  my  feet  dance  to  the  time  of  it; 

Oh,  little  son,  carried  light  on  my  shoulder, 

Let  us  go  laughing  and  dancing  through  the 

live  days, 

For  this  is  the  hour  of  the  vintage, 
When  man  gathereth  for  himself  the  fruits  of  the 
vineyard. 

I905- 

26 


JOHN  KEATS 

Meet  thou  the  event 
And  terrible  happening  of 
Thine  end :  for  thou  art  come 
Upon  the  remote,  cold  place 
Of  ultimate  dissolution  and 
With  dumb,  wide  look 
Thou,  impotent,  dost  feel 
Impotence  creeping  on 
Thy  potent  soul.     Yea,  now,  caught  in 
The  aghast  and  voiceless  pain 
Of  death,  thyself  doth  watch 
Thyself  becoming  naught. 
Peace  .  .   .  Peace  .   .  .  for  at 
The  last  is  comfort.     Lo,  now 
Thou  hast  no  pain.     Lo,  now 
The  waited  presence  is 
Within  the  room;  the  voice 
Speaks  final-gentle:     "Child, 
Ever  thy  careful  nurse, 
I  lift  thee  in  my  arms 
For  greater  ease  and  while 
Thy  heart  still  beats,  place  my 

27 


Cool  fingers  of  oblivion  on 
Thine  eyes  and  close  them  for 
Eternity.     Thou  shalt 
Pass  sleeping,  nor  know 
When  sleeping  ceases.     Yet  still 
A  little  while  thy  breathing  lasts, 
Gradual  is  faint  and  fainter;  I 
Must  listen  close — the  end." 

Rest.     And  you  others  .  .  .  All. 
Grave-fellows  in 
Green  place.     Here  grows 
Memorial  every  spring's 
Fresh  grass  and  here 
Your  marking  monument 
Was  built  for  you  long,  long 
Ago  when^aius  Cestius  died. 


28 


CINQUAINS 
1911-1913 


NOVEMBER  NIGHT 

Listen  .   .  . 

With  faint  dry  sound, 

Like  steps  of  passing  ghosts, 

The  leaves,  frost-crisp'd,  break  from  the  trees 

And  fell. 


RELEASE 

With  swift 

Great  sweep  of  her 

Magnificent  arm  my  pain 

Clanged  back  the  doors  that  shut  my  soul 

From  life. 


TRIAD 

These  be 

Three  silent  things: 

The  falling  snow  .  .   .  the  hour 

Before  the  dawn  .   .  .  the  mouth  of  one 

Just  dead. 


33 


SNOW 

Look  up  ... 

From  bleakening  hills 

Blows  down  the  light,  first  breath 

Of  wintry  wind  .  .  .  look  up,  and  scent 

The  snow! 


34 


ANGUISH 

Keep  thou 

Thy  tearless  watch 

All  night  but  when  blue-dawn 

Breathes  on  the  silver  moon,  then  weep ! 

Then  weep! 


35 


TRAPPED 

Well  and 

If  day  on  day 

Follows,  and  weary  year 

On  year  .   .   .   and  ever  days  and  years 

Well? 


MOON-SHADOWS 

Still  as 

On  windless  nights 

The  moon-cast  shadows  are, 

So  still  will  be  my  heart  when  1 

Am  dead. 


37 


V 


SUSANNA  AND  THE  ELDERS 

"Why  do 

You  thus  devise 

Evil  against  her  ?"    uFor  that 

She  is  beautiful,  delicate; 

Therefore." 


YOUTH 

But  me 

They  cannot  touch, 

Old  Age  and  death  ...  the  strange 

And  ignominious  end  of  old 

Dead  folk! 


39 


THE  GUARDED  WOUND 

If  it 

Were  lighter  touch 

Than  petal  of  flower  resting 

On  grass,  oh  still  too  heavy  it  were, 

Too  heavy! 


40 


WINTER 

The  cold 

With  steely  clutch 

Grips  all  the  land  .   .  .  alack, 

The  little  people  in  the  hills 

Will  die ! 


NIGHT  WINDS 

The  old 

Old  winds  that  blew 

When  chaos  was,  what  do 

They  tell  the  clattered  trees  that  I 

Should  weep? 


ARBUTUS 

Not  Spring's 

Thou  art,  but  her's, 

Most  cool,  most  virginal, 

Winter's,  with  thy  faint  breath,  thy  snows 

Rose-tinged. 


43 


ROMA  AETERNA 

The  sun 

Is  warm  to-day, 

O  Romulus,  and  on 

Thine  olden  Palatine  the  birds 

Still  sing. 


44 


"HE'S  KILLED  THE  MAY  .  .  ." 

"He's  killed  the  May  and  he's  laid  her  by 
To  bear  the  red  rose  company." 

Not  thou, 

White  rose,  but  thy 

Ensanguined  sister  is 

The  dear  companion  of  my  heart's 

Shed  blood. 


45 


AMAZE 

I  know 

Not  these  my  hands 

And  yet  I  think  there  was 

A  woman  like  me  once  had  hands 

Like  these. 


SHADOW 


A-sway, 
On  red  rose, 


Un  red  rose, 

A  golden  butterfly  .  .  . 

And  on  my  heart  a  butterfly 

Nio-ht-winff'd. 


Night-wing'd. 


47 


MADNESS 

Burdock, 

Blue  aconite, 

And  thistle  and  thorn  ...  of  these, 

Singing,  I  wreathe  my  pretty  wreath 

O'death. 


THE  WARNING 

Just  now, 

Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  . 

A  white  moth  flew.     Why  am  I  grown 

So  cold? 


49 


SAYING  OF  IL  HABOUL 

Guardian  of  the  Treasure  of  Solomon 
And  Keeper  of  the  Prophet's  Armour 

My  tent 

A  vapour  that 

The  wind  dispels  and  but 

As  dust  before  the  wind  am  I 

Myself. 


FATE  DEFIED 

As  it 

Were  tissue  of  silver 

I'll  wear,  O  fate,  thy  grey, 

And  go  mistily  radiant,  clad 

Like  the  moon. 


LAUREL  IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 

Sea-foam 

And  coral!     Oh,  I'll 
Climb  the  great  pasture  rocks 
And  dream  me  mermaid  in  the  sun's 
Gold  flood. 


NIAGARA 

Seen  on  a  Night  in  November 

How  frail 

Above  the  bulk 

Of  crashing  water  hangs, 

Autumnal,  evanescent,  wan, 

The  moon. 


53 


THE  GRAND   CANYON 

By  Zeus ! 

Shout  word  of  this 

To   the   eldest  dead!     Titans, 

Gods,  Heroes,  come  who  have  once  more 

A  home! 


54 


NOW  BARABBAS  WAS  A  ROBBER 

No  guile? 

Nay,  but  so  strangely 

He  moves  among  us.   ...  Not  this 

Man  but  Barabbas!     Release  to  us 

Barabbas! 


55 


FOR  LUCAS  CRANACH'S  EVE 

Oh  me, 

Was  there  a  time 

When  Paradise  knew  Eve 

In  this  sweet  guise,  so  placid  and 

So  young? 


THE  SOURCE 

Thou  hast 

Drawn  laughter  from 

A  well  of  secret  tears 

And  thence  so  elvish  it  rings, — mocking 

And  sweet: 


57 


BLUE  HYACINTHS 

In  your 

Curled  petals  what  ghosts    . 

Of  blue  headlands  and  seas, 

What    perfumed    immortal    breath    sighing 

Of  Greece. 


PART  TWO 


TO  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Ah,  Walter,  where  you  live  I  rue 

These  days  come  all  too  late  for  me; 

What  matter  if  her  eyes  are  blue 
Whose  rival  is  Persephone? 

Fie  sole,    1909. 


61 


THE  PLEDGE 

White  doves  of  Cytherea,  by  your  quest 
Across  the  blue  Heaven's  bluest  highest  air, 

And  by  your  certain  homing  to  Love's  breast, 
Still  to  be  true  and  ever  true — I  swear. 


62 


HYPNOS,  GOD  OF  SLEEP 

The  shadowy  boy  of  night 

Crosses  the  dusking  land; 
He  sows  his  poppy-seeds 

With  steady  gentle  hand. 

The  shadowy  boy  of  night, 

Young  husbandman  of  dreams, 

Garners  his  gracious  blooms 
By  far  and  moonlit  streams. 


EXPENSES 

Little  my  lacking  fortunes  show 
For  this  to  eat  and  that  to  wear; 

Yet  laughing,  Soul,  and  gaily  go ! 
An  obol  pays  the  Stygian  fare. 

London 


ON  SEEING  WEATHER-BEATEN  TREES 

Is  it  as  plainly  in  our  living  shown, 
By  slant  and  twist,  which  way  the  wind  hath 
blown? 


ADVENTURE 

Sun  and  wind  and  beat  of  sea, 
Great  lands  stretching  endlessly.   . 
Where  be  bonds  to  bind  the  free? 
All  the  world  was  made  for  me ! 


66 


OH,  LADY,  LET  THE  SAD  TEARS  FALL 

Oh,  Lady,  let  the  sad  tears  fall 

To  speak  thy  pain, 
Gently  as  through  the  silver  dusk 

The  silver  rain. 

Oh,  let  thy  bosom  breathe  its  grief 

In  such  a  soft  sigh 
As  hath  the  wind  in  gardens  where 

Pale  roses  die. 


DIRGE 


Never  the  nightingale, 

Oh,  my  dear, 
Never  again  the  lark 
Thou  wilt  hear; 

Though  dusk  and  the  morning  still 
Tap  at  thy  window-sill, 
Though  ever  love  call  and  call 
Thou  wilt  not  hear  at  all, 
My  dear,  my  dear. 


68 


THE  SUN-DIAL 

Every  day, 
Every  day, 
Tell  the  hours 
By  their  shadows, 
By  their  shadows. 


OLD  LOVE 

More   dim  than  waning  moon 

Thy  face,   more   faint 

Than  is  the  falling  wind 

Thy  voice,  yet  do 

Thine  eyes  most  strangely  glow, 

Thou  ghost  .  .   .  thou  ghost. 


70 


AH  ME.  .  .  .  ALAS.  .  .  . 

V     :  (He) 

Ah  me,  my  love's  heart, 

Like  some  frail  flower,  apart, 

High,  on  the  cliff's  edge  growing, 

Touched  by  unhindered  sun  to  sweeter  showing, 

Swung  by  each  faint  wind's  faintest  blowing, 

But  so,  on  the  cliff's  edge  growing, 

From  man's  reach  aloof,  apart: 

Ah  me,  my  love's  heart! 

(She) 

Alack,  alas,  my  lover, 

As  one  who  would  discover 

At  world's  end  his  path, 

Nor  knows  at  all  what  faery  way  he  hath 

Who  turneth  dreaming  into  faith 

And  followeth  that  near  path 

His  own  heart  dareth  to  discover: 

Alack,  alas,  my  lover  I 


PERFUME  OF  YOUTH 

(Girl's  Song) 

In  Babylon,  in  Nineveh, 

And  long  ago,  and  far  away, 
The  lilies  and  the  lotus  blew 

That   are   my  sweet  of  youth   to-day. 

From  those  high  gardens  of  the  Gods 
That  eyes  of  men  may  never  see, 

The  amaranth  and  asphodel 
Immortal  odours  shed  on  me. 

In  vial  of  my  early  years, 

As  in  a  crystal  vial  held, 
What  precious  fragrance  treasured  up 

Of  age  and  agelessness  distill'd. 

Thine  but  to  give.     Give  straightway  all. 

Yea,  straight,  mine  hands  the  ointment  rare 
In  great  libation  joyous  pour! 

Oh,  look  of  youth.  .  .  .  Oh,  golden  hair.  .  .  . 


72 


RAPUNZEL 

All  day,  all  day  I  brush 
My  golden  strands  of  hair; 

All  day  I  wait  and  wait.   .   .   . 
Ah,  who  is  there? 

Who    calls?     Who    calls?     The    gold 

Ladder  of  my  long  hair 
I  loose  and  wait.   .   .   .   and  wait.   .   .   . 

Ah,  who  is  there? 

She  left  at  dawn.   ...  I  am  blind 
In  the  tangle  of  my  long  hair.   .   .   . 

Is  it  she?     the  witch?     the  witch? 
Ah,  who  is  there? 


73 


VENDOR'S  SONG 

My  songs  to  sell,  good  sir! 

I  pray  you  buy. 
Here's  one  will  win  a  lady's  tears, 

Here's  one  will  make  her  gay, 
Here's  one  will  charm  your  true  love  true 

Forever  and  a  day; 
Good  sir,  I  pray  you  buy! 

O/z,  wo,  he  will  not  buy. 

My  songs  to  sell,  sweet  maid! 

I  pray  you  buy. 
This  one  will  teach  you  Lilith's  lore, 

And  this  what  Helen  knew, 
And  this  will  keep  your  gold  hair  gold, 

And  this  your  blue  eyes  blue; 
Sweet  maid,  I  pray  you  buy ! 

O/z,  wo,  she  will  not  buy. 

If  I'd  as  much  money  as  I  could  tell, 
I  never  would  cry  my  songs  to  sell, 
I  never  would  cry  my  songs  to  sell. 

74 


AVIS 

"Belle  Aliz  matin  leva." 

Avis,  the  fair,  at  dawn 
Rose  lightly  from  her  bed, 
Herself  arrayed. 
Avis,  the  fair,  the  maid, 
In  vestiment  of  lawn; 
Across  the  fields  she  sped, 
Five  flowerets  there  she  found, 
In  fragrant  garland  wound, 
Avis,  the  fair,  at  dawn, 
Five  roses  red. 

Go  thou  from  thence  of  thy  pity ! 
Thou  lovest  not  me. 


75 


DOOMSDAY 

Peter  stands  by  the  gate, 

And  Michael  by  the  throne. 

"Peter,  I  would  pass  the  gate 

And  come  before  the  throne." 

"Whose  spirit  prayed  never  at  the  gate, 

In  life  nor  at  the  throne, 

In  death  he  may  not  pass  the  gate 

To  come  before  the  throne" : 

Peter  said  from  the  gate ; 

Said  Michael  from  the  throne. 


GRAIN  FIELD 

Scarlet  the  poppies 
Blue  the  corn-flowers, 
Golden  the  wheat. 
Gold  for  The  Eternal 
Blue  for  Our  Lady: 
Red  for  the  five 
Wounds  of  her  Son 


77 


SONG 

I  make  my  shroud  but  no  one  knows, 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair, 
With  stitches  set  in  even  rows. 
I  make  my  shroud  but  no  one  knows. 

In  door-way  where  the  lilac  blows, 
Humming  a  little  wandering  air, 
I  make  my  shroud  and  no  one  knows, 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair. 


PIERROT 

For  Aubrey  Beardsley's  picture  "Pierrot  is  dying.' 

Pierrot  is  dying; 

Tiptoe  in, 
Finger  touched  to  lip, 

Harlequin, 
Columbine  and  Clown. 

Hush!  how  still  he  lies 

In  his  bed, 
White  slipped  hand  and  white 

Sunken  head. 
Oh,  poor  Pierrot. 

There's   his   dressing-gown 

Across  the  chair, 
Slippers  on  the  floor.   .   .   . 

Can  he  hear 
Us  who  tiptoe  in? 

Pillowed  high  he  lies 

In  his  bed; 
Listen,  Columbine. 

"He  is  dead." 
Oh,  poor  Pierrot. 

79 


THE  MONK  IN  THE  GARDEN 

He   comes  from  Mass   early  in  the   morning 

The  sky's  the  very  blue  Madonna  wears; 
The  air's  alive  with  gold!     Mark  you  the 

way 

The  birds  sing  and  the  dusted  shimmer  of  dew 
On  leaf   and   fruit?  .   .   .  Per   Bacco,   what   a 

day! 


80 


TO  THE  DEAD  IN  THE  GRAVEYARD 
UNDERNEATH  MY  WINDOW 

Written  in  a  Moment  of  Exasperation 

How  can  you  lie  so  still?     All  day  I  watch 
And  never  a  blade  of  all  the  green  sod  moves 
To  show  where  restlessly  you  turn  and  toss, 
Or  fling  a  desperate  arm  or  draw  up  knees 
Stiffened  and  aching  from  their  long  disuse; 
I  watch  all  night  and  not  one  ghost  comes  forth 
To  take  its  freedom  of  the  midnight  hour. 
Oh,  have  you  no  rebellion  in  your  bones? 
The  very  worms  must  scorn  you  where  you  lie, 
A  pallid,  mouldering,  asqujescent  folk, 
Meek  habitants  of  unresented  graves. 
Why  are  you  there  in  your  straight  row  on  row 
Where  I  must  ever  see  you  from  my  bed 
That  in  your  mere  dumb  presence  iterate 
The  text  so  weary  in  my  ears :      "Lie  still 
And  rest;  be  patient  and  lie  still  and  rest." 
I'll  not  be  patient!     I  will  not  lie  still! 

81 


There  is  a  brown  road  runs  between  the  pines, 
And  further  on  the  purple  woodlands  lie, 
And  still  beyond  blue  mountains  lift  and  loom; 
And  I  would  walk  the  road  and  I  would  be 
Deep  in  the  wooded  shade  and  I  would  reach 
The  windy  mountain  tops  that  touch  the  clouds. 
My  eyes  may  follow  but  my  feet  are  held. 
Recumbent  as  you  others  must  I  too 
Submit?     Be  mimic  of  your  movelessness 
With  pillow  and  counterpane  for  stone  and  sod? 
And  if  the  many  sayings  of  the  wise 
Teach  of  submission  I  will  not  submit 
But  with  a  spirit  all  unreconciled 
Flash  an  unquenched  defiance  to  the  stars. 
Better  it  is  to  walk,  to  run,  to  dance, 
Better  it  is  to  laugh  and  leap  and  sing, 
To  know  the  open  skies  of  dawn  and  night, 
To  move  untrammeled  down  the  flaming  noon, 
And  I  will  clamour  it  through  weary  days 
Keeping  the  edge  of  deprivation  sharp, 
Nor  with  the  pliant  speaking  of  my  lips 
Of  resignation,  sister  to  defeat. 

I'll  not  be  patient.     I  will  not  lie  still.      <Ij>> 

1**^ 

,  .;.y\j^-« 

And  in  ironic  quietude  who  is  ^ 

The  despot  of  our  days  and  lord  of  dust 
Needs  but,  scarce  heeding,  wait  to  drop 
Grim  casual  comment  on  rebellion's  end; 
"Yes,    yes.   .  .  .  Wilful   and   petulant    but    now 

82 


As  dead  and  quiet  as  the  others  are." 

And  this  each  body  and  ghost  of  you  hath  heard 

That  in  your  graves  do  therefore  lie  so  still. 

Saranac  Lake,  N.  Y.  1914. 


THE  MOURNER 

I  have  no  heart  for  noon-tide  and  the  sun, 
But  I  will  take  me  where  more  tender  night 
Shakes,  fold  on  fold,  her  dewy  darkness  down, 
And  shelters  me  that  I  may  weep  in  peace, 
And  feel  no  pitying  eyes,  and  hear  no  voice 
Attempt  my  grief  in  comfort's  alien  tongue. 

Where  cypresses,  more  black  than  night  is  black, 
Border    straight    paths,    or    where,    on    hillside 

slopes, 

The  dim  grey  glimmer  of  the  olive  trees 
Lies  like  a  breath,  a  ghost,  upon  the  dark, 
There  will  I  wander  when  the  nightingale 
Ceases,  and  even  the  veiled  stars  withdraw 
Their  tremulous  light,  there  find  myself  at  rest, 
A  silence  and  a  shadow  in  the  gloom. 

But  all  the  dead  of  all  the  world  shall  know 
The  pacing  of  my  sable-sandal'd  feet, 
And  know  my  tear-drenched  veil  along  the  grass, 
And  think  them  less  forsaken  in  their  graves, 
Saying:     There's     one     remembers,     one     still 

mourns; 
For  the  forgotten  dead  are  dead  indeed. 


NIGHT 

I  have  minded  me 
Of  the  noon-day  brightness, 
And  the  crickets'  drowsy 
Singing  in  the  sunshine.   .   .   . 

I  have  minded  me 
Of  the  slim  marsh-grasses 
That  the  winds  at  twilight, 
Dying,  scarcely  ripple.  .  .  . 

And  I  cannot  sleep. 

I  have  minded  me 

Of  a  lily-pond, 

Where  the  waters  sway 

All  the  moonlit  leaves 

And  the  curled  long  stems. 

And  I  cannot  sleep. 


ROSE-MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS 

Little  Sister  Rose-Marie, 
Will  thy  feet  as  willing-light 
Run  through  Paradise,  I  wonder, 
As  they  run  the  blue  skies  under, 
Willing  feet,  so  airy-light? 

Little  Sister  Rose-Marie, 

Will  thy  voice  as  bird-note  clear 

Lift  and  ripple  over  Heaven 

As  its  mortal  sound  is  given, 

Swift  bird-voice,  so  young  and  clear? 

How  God  will  be  glad  of  thee, 
Little  Sister  Rose-Marie! 


86 


ANGELIQUE 

Have  you  seen  Angelique, 
What  way  she  went? 
A  white  robe  she  wore, 
A  flickering  light  near  spent 
Her  pale  hand  bore. 

Have  you  seen  Angelique? 
Will  she  know  the  place 
Dead  feet  must  find, 
The  grave-cloth  on  her  face 
To  make  her  blind? 

Have  you  seen  Angelique.   . 
At  night  I  hear  her  moan, 
And  I  shiver  in  my  bed; 
She  wanders  all  alone, 
She  cannot  find  the  dead. 


CHIMES 


The  rose  new-opening  saith, 
And  the  dew  of  the  morning  saith, 
(Fallen  leaves  and  vanished  dew) 
Remember  death. 

Ding  dong  bell 

Ding  dong  bell 

II 

May-moon  thin  and  young 

In  the  sky, 
Ere  you  wax  and  wane 

I   shall  die: 
So  my  faltering  breath, 
So  my  tired  heart  saith, 
That  foretell  me  death. 
Ding-dong 

Ding-dong 
Ding-dong  ding-dong  bell 


88 


Ill 


"Thy  gold  hair  likes  me  well 

And  thy  blue  eyes,"  he  saith, 

Who  chooses  where  he  will 

And  none  may  hinder — Death. 

At  head  and  feet  for  candles 
Roses  burning  red, 

The  valley  lilies  tolling 
For  the  early  dead: 

Ding-dong  ding-dong 

Ding-dong  ding-dong 

Ding-dong  ding-dong  bell 
Ding  dong  bell 


MAD  SONG 

Grey  gaolers  are  my  griefs 

That  will  not  let  me  free; 
The  bitterness  of  tears 
Is  warder  unto  me. 

I  may  not  leap  or  run; 

I  may  nor  laugh  nor  sing. 
"Thy  cell   is   small,"   they  say, 

"Be  still  thou  captived  thing." 

But  in  the  dusk  of  the  night, 
Too  sudden-swift  to  see, 

Closing  and  ivory  gates 
Are  refuge  unto  me. 

My  griefs,  my  tears  must  watch, 
And  cold  the  watch  they  keep; 

They  whisper,  whisper  there — 
I  hear  them  in  my  sleep. 

They  know  that  I  must  come, 
And  patient  watch  they  keep, 
QO 


Whispering,  shivering  there, 
Till  I  come  back  from  sleep. 

But  in  the  dark  of  a  night, 

Too  dark  for  them  to  see, 
The  refuge  of  black  gates 

Will  open  unto  me. 

Whisper  up  there  in  the  dark.   .   .   . 

Shiver  by  bleak  winds  stung.   .   .   . 
My  dead  lips  laugh  to  hear 

How   long  you   wait  .   .   .  how   long ! 

Grey  gaolers  are  my  griefs 

That  will  not  let  me  free; 
The  bitterness  of  tears 

Is  warder  unto  me. 


MY  BIRDS  THAT  FLY  NO  LONGER 

Have  ye  forgot,  sweet  birds, 
How  near  the  heavens  lie? 

Drooping,  sick-pinion'd,  oh 
Have  ye  forgot  the  sky? 

The  air  that  once  I  knew 
Whispered  celestial  things; 

I  weep  who  hear  no  more 
Upward  and  rushing  wings. 


92 


THE  WITCH 

When  I  was  a  girl  by  Nilus  stream 
I  watched  the  desert  stars  arise; 

My  lover,  he  who  dreamed  the  Sphinx, 
Learned  all  his  dreaming  from  my  eyes. 

I  bore  in  Greece  a  burning  name, 

And  I  have  been  in  Italy 
Madonna  to  a  painter-lad, 

And  mistress  to  a  Medici. 

And  have  you  heard  (and  I  have  heard) 
Of  puzzled  men  with  decorous  mien, 

Who  judged — The  wench  knows  far  too 

much — 
And  hanged  her  on  the  Salem  green? 


93 


CRY  OF  THE  NYMPH  TO  EROS 

Hear  thou  my  lamentation, 

Eros,  Aphrodite's  son! 

My  heart  is  broken  and  my  days  are  done. 

Where  the  woods  are  dark  and  the  stream  runs 
clear  in  the  dark, 
Eros! 

I  prayed  to  thy  mother  and  planted  the  seeds  of 
her  flowers, 

And  smiled  at  the  planting  and  wept  at  the  plant 
ing.     Oh,  violets 

Ye  are  dead  and  your  whiteness,  your  sweetness, 
availed  not.     Thy  mother 

Is  cruel.     Her  flowers  lie  dead  at  the  steps  of 
her  altar, 

Eros !  Eros ! 

With  a  shining  like  silver  they  cut  through  the 
blue  of  the  sky 

Eros! 
\ 

4    The  dove's  wings,  the  white  doves  I  brought  to 
thy  mother  in  worship; 

94 


And  I  said,  she  will  laugh  for  joy  of  my  doves. 

Oh,  stillness 
Of  dead  wings.     She  laughed  not  nor  looked. 

My  doves  are  dead, 
Are  dead  at  the  steps  of  her  altar.     Thy  mother 

is  cruel 

Eros!  Eros! 

Hear  thou  my  lamentation, 

Eros,  Aphrodite's  son! 

My  heart  is  broken  and  my  days  are  done. 


95 


CRADLE-SONG 

Madonna,   Madonna, 

Sat  by  the  grey  road-side, 

Saint  Joseph  her  beside, 

And  Our  Lord  at  her  breast; 

Oh  they  were  fain  to  rest, 

Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 

All  by  the  grey  road-side. 

She  said,  Madonna  Mary, 

"I  am  hungry,  Joseph,  and  weary, 

All  in  the  desert  wide." 

Then  bent  a  tall  palm-tree 

Its  branches  low  to  her  knee; 

"Behold,"  the  palm-tree  said, 

"My  fruit  that  shall  be  your  bread. 

So  were  they  satisfied, 

Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 

All  by  the  grey  road-side. 

From  'Herod  they  were  fled 
Over  the  desert  wide, 
Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 
In  Egypt  to  abide: 

96 


Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 
In  Egypt  to  abide. 

The  blessed  Queen  of  Heaven 
Her  own  dear  Son  hath  given 
For  my  son's  sake;  his  sleep 
Is  safe  and  sweet  and  deep. 

Lully  .  .  .  Lulley.  .  .  . 
So  may  you  sleep  alway, 
My  baby,  my  dear  son: 
Amen,  Amen,  Amen. 

My  baby,  my  dear  son. 


97 


TO  MAN  WHO  GOES  SEEKING 

IMMORTALITY,  BIDDING  HIM 

LOOK  NEARER  HOME 

Too  far  afield  thy  search.  Nay,  turn.  Nay, 
turn. 

At  thine  own  elbow  potent  Memory  stands, 
Thy  double,  and  eternity  is  cupped 

In  the  pale  hollow  of  those  ghostly  hands. 


98 


THE  LONELY  DEATH 

In  the  cold  I  will  rise,  I  will  bathe 

In  waters  of  ice;  myself 

Will  shiver,  and  shrive  myself, 

Alone  in  the  dawn,  and  anoint 

Forehead  and  feet  and  hands; 

I  will  shutter  the  windows  from  light, 

I  will  place  in  their  sockets  the  four 

Tall  candles  and  set  them  a-flame 

In  the  grey  of  the  dawn ;  and  myself 

Will  lay  myself  straight  in  my  bed, 

And  draw  the  sheet  under  my  chin. 


99 


LO,  ALL  THE  WAY 

Lo,  all  the  way, 
Look  you,  I  said,  the  clouds  will  break,  the  sky 

Grow  clear,  the  road 
Be  easier  for  my  travelling,  the  fields, 

So  sodden  and  dead, 
Will  shimmer  with  new  green  and  starry  bloom, 

And  there  will  be, 
There  will  be  then,  with  all  serene  and  fair, 

Some  little  while 
For  some  light  laughter  in  the  sun;  and  lo, 

The  journey's  end, — 
Grey  road,  grey  fields,  wind  and  a  bitter  rain. 


100 


AUTUMN 

Fugitive,  wistful, 

Pausing  at  edge  of  her  going, 

Autumn  the  maiden  turns, 

Leans  to  the  earth  with  ineffable 

Gesture.     Ah,  more  than 

Spring's  skies  her  skies  shine 

Tender,  and  frailer 

Bloom  than  plum-bloom  or  almond 

Lies  on  her  hillsides,  her  fields 

Misted,  faint-flushing.     Ah,  lovelier 

Is  her  refusal  than 

Yielding,  who  pauses  with  grave 

Backward  smiling,  with  light 

Unforgettable  touch  of 

Fingers  withdrawn.  .   .  Pauses,  lo 

Vanishes  .  .  .  fugitive,  wistful.  .  . 


101 


THE  ELGIN  MARBLES 

The  clustered  Gods,  the  marching  lads, 
The  mighty-limbed,  deep-bosomed  Three, 

The  shimmering  grey-gold  London  fog.   .   , 
I  wish  that  Phidias  could  see ! 


102 


THE  CRUCIFIXION 


And  the  centurion  who  stood  by  said: 
Truly  this  was  a  son  of  God. 


Not  long  ago  but  everywhere  I  go 
There  is  a  hill  and  a  black  windy  sky. 

Portent  of  hill,  sky,  day's  eclipse  I  know: 

Hill,  sky,  the  shuddering  darkness,  these  am  1. 

The  dying  at  His  right  hand,  at  His  left 

I  am — the  thief  redeemed  and  the  lost  thief; 

I  am  the  careless  folk;  I  those  bereft, 

The  Well-Belov'd,  the  women  bowed  in  grief. 

The  gathering  Presence  that  in  terror  cried, 
In   earth's   shock,   in   the   Temple's   veil   rent 
through, 

I ;  and  a  watcher,  ignorant,  curious-eyed, 
I  the  centurion  who  heard  and  knew. 


103 


THE  FIDDLING  LAD 

"There'll  be  no  roof  to  shelter  you; 

You'll  have  no  where  to  lay  your  head. 
And  who  will  get  your  food  for  you? 
Star-dust  pays  for  no  man's  bread. 
So,  Jacky,  come  give  me  your  fiddle 
If  ever  you  mean  to  thrive." 

"I'll  have  the  skies  to  shelter  me, 

The  green  grass  it  shall  be  my  bed, 
And  happen  I'll  find  somewhere  for  me 
A  sup  of  drink,  a  bit  of  bread; 
And  I'll  not  give  my  fiddle 
To  any  man  alive." 

And  it's  out  he  went  across  the  wold, 
His  fiddle  tucked  beneath  his  chin, 

And  (golden  bow  on  silver  strings) 
Smiling  he  fiddled  the  twilight  in; 

And  fiddled  in  the  frosty  moon, 

And  all  the  stars  of  the  Milky  Way, 
104 


And  fiddled  low  through  the  dark  of  dawn, 
And  laughed  and  fiddled  in  the  day. 

But  oh,  he  had  no  bit  nor  sup, 

And  oh,  the  winds  blew  stark  and  cold, 

And  when  he  dropped  on  his  grass-green  bed 
It's  long  he  slept  on  the  open  wold. 

They  digged  his  grave  and,  "There,"  they  said, 
"He's  got  more  land  than  ever  he  had, 

And  well  it  will  keep  him  held  and  housed, 
The  feckless  bit  of  a  fiddling  lad." 

And  it's  out  he's  stepped  across  the  wold 
His  fiddle  tucked  beneath  his  chin — 

A  wavering  shape  in  the  wavering  light, 
Smiling  he  fiddles  the  twilight  in, 

And  fiddles  in  the  frosty  moon, 

And  all  the  stars  of  the  Milky  Way, 

And  fiddles  low  through  the  dark  of  dawn, 
And  laughs  and  fiddles  in  the  day. 

He  needeth  not  or  bit  or  sup, 

The  winds  of  night  he  need  not  fear, 

And  (bow  of  gold  on  silver  strings) 
It's  all  the  peoples  turn  to  hear. 

"Oh  never,"  It's  all  the  people  cry, 

"Came  such  sweet  sounds  from  mortal  hand"; 
105 


And,  "Listen,"  they  say,  "it's  some  ghostly  boy 
That  goes  a-fiddling  through  the  land. 

Hark  you  I     It's  night  comes  slipping  in, — 
The  moon  and  the  stars  that  tread  the  sky; 

And  there's  the  breath  of  the  world  that  stops; 
And  now  with  a  shout  the  sun  comes  by !" 

Who  heareth  him  he  heedeth  not 

But  smiles  content,  the  fiddling  lad; 
"He  murmurs,  "Oh  many's  the  happy  day, 
My  fiddle  and  I  together  have  had; 
And  could  I  give  my  fiddle 
To  any  man  alive?" 


106 


THE  IMMORTAL  RESIDUE 

Wouldst  thou  find  my  ashes?     Look 
In  the  pages  of  my  book; 
And,  as  these  thy  hand  doth  turn, 
Know  here  is  my  funeral  urn. 


ill  II 


m  - 

aj;o/?    « 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


••*tV --.*•• 

&,*& 


JJO,   X  & 


NOV1 

1 3  1980 


BETO     AUG  1  3  JfcfccULATION  DEPT, 


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AUG161982 

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.III!     5 1985 


LD2lA-40m-3,'72 
(Qll73SlO)476-A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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